The Reeducation of Oliver Wood
by misspottah
Summary: Oliver learns some things, with the help of good friends. One of these things is that he can be quite stupid. [book canon, a few years post-war, some cursing, expect KBOW]
1. Domestication

_"Oliver!" "That was quite a risky maneuver near the-" "Wood, look here!" "Oliver, a moment please!" "Anything to say to the Prophet on your feelings towards-" "Just a picture!" "You've been named third all-team Keeper for the league, how do you-" "Please, just one picture!"_

Oliver resisted the urge to elbow his way through the crowd outside the Puddlemere locker room which, for reasons of security, was off limits for apparation. It was hard, sometimes, to shift between the brutality of the pitch and the false civility required in any interaction with the press. Even after a win like tonight's- hard-fought and reasonably satisfying- he found himself struggling to muster up a smile for the camera, or a clever line for the perpetually scribbling Quick-Quotes Quills. He wanted a drink, something that would hit him hard. He was hungry, too. He hadn't eaten since breakfast early in morning, as the game ran nearly all day. He could feel his stomach growling, though the crowd drowned out the noise. As the Puddlemere manager and publicist had so often told him, the image he portrayed to the public could be as important as how he played on the pitch. Eyes focused ahead, he tried to fix his face into a less miserable position.

"Great honor," Oliver said to no reporter in particular, moving forward. The crowd grew impossibly quiet when he spoke to allow their quills to pick up his answers. "Both teams played a good game. We've got a weekend of rest ahead before the next few games, I'm looking forward to it."

The crowd seemed sated by these vague claims, and they moved onto new material. He felt his hair, still wet from the shower, dampen his shirt collar.

 _"Witch Weekly's named you as one of the most eligible-" "Can you comment on the rumors surrounding Streetwater All-Stars Beater-" "How's you're mum, Oliver?"_

"I'm really trying to focus on next weeks games, guys." Oliver tried an apologetic smile, emulating the overly friendly manner some of his teammates adopted around the press. Apparently, people found it endearing. "If you've got any questions-"

"Oliver Wood, you numpty!" Half the cameras turned towards the voice, mysteriously springing from outside their circle. Oliver turned as well, spotting just the top of someone's head, fiery red. Recognizing it, Oliver stepped towards his old friend and the crowd parted. Charlie Weasley clapped him on the shoulder, a fierce smile on his face. "Pulling a Starfish and Stick will get you killed against beaters like the Kestrels' lot."

"Charlie, I didn't know you were coming-"

"And if you did, you wouldn't have put yourself in the path of two Bludgers to stop the Kestrels scoring once?"

"I blocked the goal, that's my job-"

"Risking life and limb, as always. The least you could do is get me decent seats, let me see the carnage."

"If I would have known you were coming-"

"Right, right." Charlie laughed. His criticisms were the habit of an old Quidditch captain, the teasing of an old friend. "Mums upset you haven't come for dinner since you got the job. Getting too big for your britches, with all these folks around?" Charlie motioned towards the crowd of press, raptly capturing the friendly reunion for their readers. Oliver turned his back to the crowd, leading Charlie farther from the locker room, closer to a safe space to apparate. The reporters followed at the distance, the presence of an Order member, and therefore war hero, reminding them to act respectfully, to some degree.

"I've been busy."

"You're always busy." He wasn't wrong. Oliver knew he always found a way to devote his time and effort wholly to a cause. He was dedicated- obsession, his friends called it. Usually, his cause was Quidditch. "I'm headed to the Burrow now. The Harpies had an early game, so Ginny's coming round for dinner. I know everyone would be thrilled to have two Quidditch stars at the table."

"I wouldn't want to-"

"You're off for the weekend, I know. Ginny's Harpies are on the same schedule. No excuses." As Charlie interrupted again, Oliver remembered that this was what it was like at the Weasley's place, over dinner. They talked over each other, interrupting to finish stories or begin completely new ones. The manner in which Charlie spoke reminded Oliver of the Charlie he knew in his earlier year. Not strict, exactly, but commanding. Larger than life. He had been Oliver's hero.

"Alright," Oliver conceded, casting a look back to the locker room. They seemed far enough from the protection of the Puddlemere facilities to apparate successfully. "Your mum's pie is still the best I've had."

"Tell her that." He grabbed Oliver's forearm, ready to apparate. "She'll send you home with seven."

* * *

Oliver found himself glad for his empty stomach; side-along apparation with Charlie was bumpy. Solid ground appeared below him and he had scarcely ever been happier to see it. They didn't stay still for long; Charlie released Oliver and made his way towards the front door. Oliver followed, but paused right outside the doorway, suddenly aware that he was in a bit of a daze. He hadn't been here in years. The change in plans had happened rather quickly, especially for someone usually very concerned with plans and their execution. A few minutes ago, he had been headed home, away from the chaos of the week. Now he was headed into a different kind of chaos. From outside the door, he could smell dinner. He could hear Mrs. Weasley welcoming Charlie, who announced his guest. Oliver would not be allowed to stay outside for long.

"Oliver Wood! Come in, dear." Oliver had heard his name called quite often that day, but not yet with such fondness. He allowed himself to be pulled into the the Burrow by Molly Weasley. "Right in, come near the fire. It's cold out there, you'll catch death with that wet hair."

"Well, Oliver Wood!" There was his name again, with the same warmth. Arthur Wesley, who had previously occupied the chair closest to the fire, stood to offer it to their guest. Molly all but physically forced the young man down into the armchair as Arthur settled into the one beside it. "It's been too long."

"Still look like you did the year we dropped Percy off for school- a bit skinny, and with that floppy hair." Mrs. Weasley patted his head in a way he would usually find condescending, but without ulterior motive. It felt, as he was sure it was intended, comforting. "Dinner will be on in just a minute. Make yourself at home."

There was shriek of laughter from the front yard as Charlie came back from the kitchen, holding an apple. "That'll be George and Angelina."

"You'll ruin your dinner, dear." Molly plucked the apple from Charlie's hand as she passed him, disappearing back into the kitchen.

"Look who we picked up!" George bounded into the house, having literally picked up his sister, Ginny, and thrown her over his shoulder. She was laughing, and followed through the door by Harry Potter and Angelina Johnson, none of whom were finding this occurrence at all unusual.

"Fresh off a win, and smelling rank," added Angelina. "Speaking of, if it isn't Puddlemere's star keeper, Oliver Wood!"

George, spotting his old friend, went straight towards Oliver's chair. He made a show out of shaking his hand, then bending to allow Ginny, still over his shoulder, to do the same. "Well, to what do we owe this honor?"

"Cornered him in the parking lot," volunteered Charlie from the couch.

"Never been more proud." George patted Charlie's shoulder as he released Ginny. He sat himself on the couch, between his older brother and Angelina. "You picked a good night to stop by, Ol. Mum's doing a roast."

"Four Gryffindor Quidditch captains in my house for dinner- what a night," added Mr. Weasley politely, standing to free up his chair to any of his guests. Ginny took it in a matter of seconds, apparently used to the high demand for seating. Harry leaned against it's arm, nearest Oliver. "Maybe after dinner we'll go out back and put together a scrimmage?"

"And have half the country after us when we injure Ginny and Oliver and they have to sit out a game?" George asked, rhetorically. "Not bloody likely."

"Language." Mrs. Weasley came in from the kitchen, a tray in her hands. She set it on the coffee table and began distributing cups. "Some tea and a few cookies- that should hold you over until dinner. The roast is taking longer than expected. Our guests first- Harry, dear, here you are. And one for Angelina. Oliver-"

"I'm alright, thank you," Oliver said quietly.

Mrs. Weasley ignored him, pressing a mug into his hand. "There you are, that'll warm you up. Arthur, could you have a look up in the attic, while you have time? That nasty noise I've been telling you about."

"Right, of course. I'd bet it's that ghoul again." Arthur Weasley headed towards the stairs, taking his wand from his pocket. Molly stormed forth, once again, into the kitchen. It appeared as if they were intentionally leaving the younger ones alone.

"Warm enough there, Ollie?" Angelina joked, nodding towards his lap.

Wincing at the nickname, a dramatic reaction Oliver has kept up since they started calling him Ollie, he looked down. It appeared Mrs. Weasley, without him noticing, had somehow tucked a blanket around him. He pushed it off to the side, a difficult feat while balancing a full cup of tea.

"Oh, leave him alone, Angelina," George said. "He had a long game today. Need to be coddled. You know how he gets."

"You played rather well, Oliver," offered Ginny. "Got to watch a bit of it, when mine was done."

"Thanks-" Oliver tried to speak, but found himself, once again, too slow. George began a story about his day at work. Some kid had sampled too many candies at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes and turned purple in what seemed to be an irreversible manner. The pace of the conversation was something that it would take a while for him to understand- nearly an art form. Fatigue setting in, the Keeper settled for watching them talk, like a verbal game of tennis. Angelina and Harry seemed accustomed to it, able to take a swing once in a while, but soon Harry grew quiet. He turned towards Oliver, talking under the buzz of the regular conversation.

"How've you been, Wood?"

"Good, good. Though I reckon I should be asking you that."

"I hear it enough."

"You're at the Ministry now?"

"Yeah- just finished Auror training. It's going well."

"That's great," Oliver said positively, then added, "Sure is a waste, though."

Harry frowned and glanced towards Ginny, who was now listening to their conversation, before inquiring. "What do you mean?"

"Youngest Seeker in Hogwarts history should be on a pitch somewhere, in my opinion."

"Maybe if I had focused on training more in the later years."

"I left you my team, and you got lazy?" Oliver was smiling, well aware of what Harry meant.

"He got busy," answered Ginny.

"Didn't seem to stop you," Oliver said to the youngest Weasley, in way of kindness. "You won the Quidditch House Cup your seventh year, didn't you?"

'Yeah." She shrugged, firing back. "But he defeated Lord Voldemort the year before, so no one really pays it any attention."

Everyone laughed. Oliver looked up. He hadn't realized that the others had begun to listen to their conversation. He sipped at his tea, allowing the conversation to fall into someone else's hands once more. It would be quite easy to feel at home here. In fact, Oliver could already feel the warmth of it all lulling him into comfort. Much better than his empty little house in the suburbs. Maybe he would stop by more often, if the invitations continued. Minutes later, Mrs. Weasley called to dinner, and Oliver's stomach kept him from dwelling anymore on the status of his invitation.

Oliver began to find that it was impossible to leave the Burrow. Dinner ended very late, and Charlie invited Oliver to stay the night in the house. Both George and Ginny offered up their rooms, as Ginny was staying at Harry's flat, and George had promised Angelina's parents that he would spend the night at their house. Mrs. Weasley pledged to make whatever her guest wanted for breakfast. Oliver, flattered, thanked them but denied the offer. They pressed on.

"Come on, Ol," pleaded Angelina. "George, Charlie and I are going to Hogwarts tomorrow afternoon, to watch Gryffindor's first practice of the year. You can join us."

This did sound like fun, but Oliver felt he was taking advantage of the Weasley's hospitality. There was also a large part of him that was dying to have a minute alone. He pressed his heels into the ground of the Burrow's entryway, trying to be gracious. It didn't come naturally to him. "I can meet you there, then."

"Nonsense, I've already decided to make make a big breakfast," argued Mrs. Weasley. "We'll just make it a brunch. You'll come and eat here, before the practice." After several minutes of discussion, it was decided. Oliver would go home tonight, but come back in around noon to eat. After, he'd borrow a broom and fly with Charlie to Hogwarts to meet the rest of the group.

The party broke up rather quickly. Harry, Ginny, Angelina and George all said their goodbyes and dissapparated. Mrs. Weasley told Oliver to wait, that she had something for him in the kitchen. The house was, all at once, strangely quiet, but not unpleasantly so. Mr. Weasley clapped Oliver on the shoulder, a fatherly gesture. Charlie was banished to the kitchen to help charm the room into self-cleaning, as Mrs. Weasley reemerged, a few boxes in hand. Mrs. Weasley pressed the parcels into his arms, and Oliver could smell baked apples and hot sugar coming from within the packaging. "There you are, dear, Charlie says they're your favorite."


	2. Spectating

**A/N: First two chapters going up in one day? Yes, I know, I'm ahead of myself. But I've had these written, and I'm eager to get them out now that I've got to editing them. Expect the third chapter tonight, as well. It's the first bit I wrote for this story, so I hope you'll like it.**

* * *

Charlie pulled up out of his dive quickly, at the last second, flying parallel to the ground before stepping off his broom. Eye darting to the castle, bathed in clouds, then to the Quidditch pitch, the lake, and the locker rooms, Oliver didn't think to pull up until the last second. His flight had been systematically excecuted, practically designed for efficiency until this moment. The speed of his decent rendered the soft grass useless and Oliver's feet hit the packed dirt of the ground hard. It was years of experience, the practiced bend of his knees, that absorbed the shock of the landing and kept him from injury.

"This way." Charlie kept on, barely sparing a look back at Oliver before leading towards the Quidditch pitch. The redhead took the broom Oliver had borrowed and leaned it against the wall of the facilities with him own. Oliver found himself wanting to veer towards the locker rooms, and through them onto the pitch itself, where he had practiced and played for years. But he was lead on a less familiar route, up into the stands. He had watched every game from the stands his first year. After that, he watched the other houses play each other, spotting the players he had to look out for when it was Gryffindor's turn to take the pitch. The wooden stands, rebuilt after fiendfyre burnt it to the ground just a few years ago, felt as rickety as they always had. Now, mostly empty, Oliver felt that they swayed less under his weight.

Following his old captain, Oliver made his way up the many steps, towards the top of the stands. He couldn't remember ever seeing Charlie here; in his mind, Charlie was still weaving across the sky messily, captain's whistle hanging unused around his neck. Talented, but less of a disciplinarian that Oliver was when it came his turn to lead. Charlie had worked hard, of course, but Oliver always felt the sole of the second eldest Weasley's talent seemed to come inherently. They flew, and led, quite differently.

"Here." Stopping at the highest seat, Charlie shuffled his way in and sat on the bench, grinning. "Best seats in the house."

It would have been a great seat for a game, but practices tended to stay lower to the ground. The Gryffindor team was a series of faceless, vaguely crimson figures from this high- a spot only good for observing strategy, Oliver thought as he sat down. Glancing towards the stairs, Oliver saw that the rest of their group had arrived and thought better of the spot's function. The team would pay a group of nostalgic adults no mind, but if they could see their faces, identify them as a handful of Order of the Pheonix war heroes and a professional Quidditch player, there might be a scene. As it were, the group making its way towards them was making enough noise to draw the attention of anyone within a kilometer. It seemed they had picked up a few people on the way.

Percy led, the only silent member of the group. Behind him was George, talking animatedly at his older brother and dragging Angelina by her hand. She was turned around, almost backwards, telling something to to Katie Bell, who was laughing at whatever it was Angelina was saying, her head thrown back and her feet taking the steps by memory. Oliver hadn't seen Katie looking that happy in a long time- but, to be fair, he hadn't see her at all in a long time. Suddenly she shook away her laughter and looked forward, meeting Oliver's eyes. She turned a corner of her mouth upwards and lifted her hand in a polite greeting as the front of their group arrived at the top row.

"Ol!" George called as they neared. "We brought you a present!"

Oliver scoffed and looked away from Bell, turning his attention to George. Percy was pressed into the seat next to Oliver, proving the latter's assumption incorrect.

"The Honorable Head Boy of 1993 has Saturday's off. Tore him away from his weekend work so the two of you could enjoy a reunion."

Percy offered Oliver his hand, the smile on his face the picture of business-professional politeness that Wood had come to expect of his old roommate. It wasn't false; Percy greeted as Oliver flew- practiced, calculated, but not falsely. They shook hands, and Oliver quickly put a kind arm around the redhead's shoulder in greeting. "It's been too long, Perce."

"It has. The Ministry has been keeping me busy with all the changes. The reform is necessary, of course, but rebuilding means extra work. The Minister has been leaning heavily on my department-"

"Kingsley would give you a _year_ off if you asked." George climbed over the bench in front of them and took the seat in front of Charlie. "I can't imagine Magical Transportation is at the front of his mind."

"Leave Percy alone." Angelina slid into row, right beside George, and leaned over the bench to pull Oliver into a hug. She ruffled his hair, as she was wont to do, and gave him a warm smile as she pulled away. "Can't blame him. We're all just trying to impress Oliver."

"Speak for yourself." Katie sat, leaving space between herself and George for Angelina to sit, when she was down being the diplomat of the group. Her eyes were already on pitch, but when she spoke, she smiled once again. "I gave up on that my second day of practice."

"That's one more day than the rest of it." Angelina chuckled once and took her seat.

"But Percy has always been an overachiever. Never give up, do you, Perce?" George piped up once more, though everyone's eyes were now glued to the pitch. Even Percy, who had never shown an interest in Quidditch, seemed to have committed to staring at the practicing Gryffindor team. Even Oliver, not usually perceptive, could see the red of his old roommate's cheeks. He remembered the old rumors of Percy's crush, which was spread, he was almost certain, by Fred and George themselves. It was false, Oliver was sure, but he knew it had existed far before he heard about it in their sixth year. It embarrassed Percy, who had been, despite his strict enforcement of rule and occasionally condescending attitude toward's Oliver's athletic ambitions, a good friend.

"How's Penelope?" Oliver brought up the only non-Ministry related subject he could think of to change the subject and directed it at Percy, his eyes moving back to the pitch.

"Oh- well, we broke up." Percy fidgeted, but quickly controlled the uncouth movement.

"I'm sorry. I didn't-"

"It was a long time ago. A few years, actually. She works at the Ministry, so I do see her from time to time. Somewhere in magical creature registration- administration, mind you, not out in the field. She's always been very organized."

Oliver nodded, accepting that this factual update was Percy's idea of waxing nostalgic, and turned back to the pitch.

"I reckon they've got a chance this year- Seeker's quite good," Charlie said after a minute or two.

"He's no Harry Potter," replied George, grumbling. "And catching the Snitch won't help if their Keeper can't keep the goal line clear."

"That Keeper has had his eyes on the Snitch since his feet left the ground," Oliver added. "I think they moved him from Seeker. Looks like he's not used to the position. He should be on the reserves, not on the field. You can't have a Seeker playing Keeper."

"Armchair captains, the lot of you," Angelina said, and leaned against George's side. "Why don't you go show them a thing or two, Wood, if you're so sure?"

"The problem is," Katie butted in quickly, to Oliver's relief, "we never watch any of the other practices. None of you have a clue how they's stack up against Slytherin, Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff until you start showing up to those practices, too."

Charlie guffawed. "Hufflepuff was never a problem."

"You didn't have to play Diggory," Wood added. "Hell of a player, and he trained a good team. Stayed good for a while- Hufflepuff almost took the cup from us because of him, even two years after the Triwizard Tournament."

The group was quiet. It took Oliver a second to realize why, but it was too late to backtrack. He had been accused more than once in his life of putting Qudditch before safety, before livelihood, even. He didn't mean to make small of Cedric's death, nor did he mean to imply that it was in anyway positive. His feet, though sure and graceful on the pitch, always found a way of putting themselves in his mouth in conversation.

"Oliver," Katie paused before continuing, her voice gentle, but ironically so. "You've always known how to cock-up a good time."

Angelina laughed and the rest followed suit; even Percy cracked a smile. The awkwardness faded, and the group turned inwards, only Charlie and Oliver's eyes shifting towards the game. The Seeker really was good, which somewhat explained why the captain had decided to move the old one to Keeper. It was a poor choice. The new Keeper had the wrong build. He would have done better in the reserves in case the new Seeker was injured. They needed someone bigger for Keeper, someone less concerned about the state of the Snitch. One of the players hovered higher, watching the rest run drills. Oliver kept an eye on him, assuming he was the captain.

Oliver's name brought him back to the conversation. He waited a second for whoever had spoken to repeat themselves.

"I said, you'll be playing Ginny in a few weeks," repeated Angelina.

"Right. Harpies are good this year. I'm looking forward to it."

"Ginny's good," corrected Katie. Even to Oliver, his response sounded canned, prewritten. Katie was, apparently, willing to challenge it. Oliver remembered now that she was Holyhead Harpies fan. "They have her at Chaser and on reserve for Seeker, but she might as well be playing that position, too. I can't remember the last time they caught a Snitch."

Oliver rolled his eyes. "They caught one a few weeks ago."

"Barely. And it was a dumb catch- they were behind by two many points to win. It just solidified the loss!"

"That's hardly the Seeker's fault," Oliver started. "If the Chasers-"

"If the Keeper," Katie interrupted, correcting him, "could extract his head from his arse, the score wouldn't have run away from them."

"Always the Keeper's fault with you! That's one person, he can't-"

" _They_ can't." Katie and Angelina corrected him together, as if he alone had intentionally and systematically orchestrated the exclusion of women from Quidditch. It wasn't ingrained sexism that made him commit the little slip; they were all well aware of this fact. The Gryffindor women had always made up the strongest part of their team, and Oliver was always adamant of this fact. Rather, it was selfishness and specificity. The setting, the people, the conversation- it had all sent him back quite a few years. It had taken him back to similar arguments,, specific arguments in the locker rooms, when their own team had been the subject.

"Right." Oliver conceded. The Seeker swooped close to their section, mercifully capturing everyone's attention.

A few minutes later, the players began to congregate for a post-practice talk, and soon they exited the field. Percy stood promptly, brushing non-existent dirt from his pants. "I really must get going. I've got a lot of work to do today."

"It's Saturday," George argued, though he stood himself, stretching his arms over his head. No one argued; they all began their decent of the narrow stairs, Percy once again leading the way. Oliver fell in between Katie and Charlie, his eyes on the pitch. It was just a Quidditch pitch, not unlike the Puddlemere stadium. In fact, in comparison, the Hogwarts Quidditch facilities were smaller, less regal in stature. But they carried higher regard for Oliver. They seemed infinitely more important.

There, at those goal hoops, was where he tried out for the team. And right by the door to the locker room, that was where Charlie, still a hero to young Oliver, absolutely untouchable, called him 'one hell of a Keeper,' but said he was too small to play. And that same place, one year later, was where Charlie gave him the same compliment but without stipulation, and handed him a uniform. Right under the stands was where he had his first kiss, when he snuck out of the castle with Alicia Spinnet the night before their first game. In the center of the field, he taught Harry Potter how to play. A few years later, in that same space, he hugged his teammates and hoisted the Quidditch House Cup over his head. And just a few years after that- _too soon,_ he allowed himself to think, just for a second, we _were all much too young_ \- that was where he returned, where he pledged his life, if it was needed. It was where Headmistress McGonagall found him once the grounds were quiet, blood seeping from his side to dye the grass red. It was where she took his hand, just for a moment as she motioned for a Healer, and said something she had never said to him, not even when they won the Quidditch House Cup. She told him that he had done well.

Oliver, dedicated though he was, could not think of a time since the battle that he had felt willing to give himself wholly to something, the way he had to Gryffindor, or to the D.A.

"Oliver." Charlie's voice brought the keeper back to the present. He held out the borrowed broom- they were already back outside the pitch. Time had passed quickly, the grey sky a darker shade of grey. The number of brooms set against the facility wall had grown, and he watched as his old friends, one by one, picked up their own. Percy wasted no time. He shook Oliver's hand once more, found his broom and bid the group goodbye. Oliver was looking to leave just as quickly. He said his goodbyes and Charlie followed suit, both mounting their brooms and kicking off.

Charlie started forward. Oliver's broom sputtered. After rising a few feet, he sank back to the earth, landing hard on his feet once again. He looked up to see Charlie had turned around, landing (with a string of expletives) nearly exactly when he had kicked off moments before.

Charlie threw down his own broom, leading Oliver to understand how a broom borrowed from Charlie Weasley could have a bit of damage. "Useless hunk of wood! I just had it fixed-"

"Flew fine on the way here," Oliver offered, to no one's relief.

"Might as well throw it out. Piece of rubbish." George looked more red than usual. He scratched the back of his neck, already straddling his own, slightly less rickety broom. "It was Dad's, forever ago. Surprised it got you here in the first place."

Oliver frowned at that statement, but chose not to consider it further. Instead, he turned back to Charlie, who had his wand pointed at the broom in question, muttering. After a minute, he shook his head, just as red as his brother. "I don't know what to tell you. It's a piece of rubbish. And mine- I don't think my broom will hold two people."

"I've got Angelina," George added, by way of excuse. "I don't think mine can handle three people. Barely takes two."

"I'll drop him home," offered Katie. "It's on the way."


	3. Flight

"I'll drop him home," offered Katie. "It's on the way."

It was the only possible way home, and therefore the option on which they were immediately decided.

"Absolute hero," George said to Oliver, nodding at Katie as she hugged Angelina goodbye. He added, more quietly, "Just don't let her kill you, mate."

Moments later, George and Angelina were a dot in the foggy sky. Charlie apologized once more and invited both Katie and Oliver to the Burrow for dinner, any night they'd like. It was nice, of course, but a redundant offer, as Mrs. Weasley had already given them both standing invitations at multiple points in time. Still, they thanked him and said goodbye.

Their friends gone, Katie adjusted her grip on her broom, watching Charlie fly away. "You ready?"

"Yeah," replied Oliver, reaching out his hand for the broom.

"What?"

"I'm flying it." It wasn't a command, but an assumption.

"You're mental." She tightened her grip.

"When's the last time you flew, before today?"

"I fly to work everyday."

"Alright, when's the last time you flew over a body of water?"

"Pond in my mum's backyard count?"

"Katie."

"I'm joking, Oliver. We non-professional flyers aren't quite as provincial as you'd think."

"Just let me fly it," Oliver pleaded. Watching the practice had made nostalgic, then contemplative. It was enough to emotionally exhaust anyone, and his body wasn't in much better shape from the week of practice and a hard-won game. He wanted badly to be home.

"No."

"It's getting dark, Katie. Just let me-"

"When was the last time you flew with a passenger?" She was unyeilding.

"I..." He couldn't remember. He shrugged.

Katie took a breath to begin the next question, but paused to frown before continuing. "When was the last time you flew for fun?"

"Today," Oliver replied without confidence.

"Not for transportation. For fun." Oliver didn't answer. He looked up at the sky, as if asking a higher power why he had to have this conversation today. Without looking, he knew Katie was shaking her head as she spoke. "That's sad, Wood."

"Yes, I'm very sad, Bell. Everyone agrees. Can we leave now?"

"I'm flying." She had the last word. Katie mounted her broom and Oliver mounted it behind her, grumbling as he took hold of her waist. Here, on the back of the broom, he was all elbows, unable to find an adequate position. Katie took off without waiting for Oliver to settle in, the sound of the ascent not quite covering her mumbled, "Shut up."

It had been a while since he flew with a passenger, but it had been even longer since he flew _as_ one. He was immediately uneasy, fearing the loss of control. Katie was great on a broom; of this Oliver was well aware. But the back of a broom didn't feel steady to him. He could feel the muscles of Katie's back, the way they adjusted with her lightest movement. Those movements, no matter how small, could kill them both if incorrect.

They flew steadily, at first, which calmed his overactive nerves. At the common height of flight, just out of muggle view, they reached a respectable speed. They were just above the clouds, Oliver's feet inches from scraping them. Without the responsibility of steering, he could look down. He felt as is his feet could cut through the clouds like knives cut through fog in Muggle cartoons, leaving two clear streaks behind them. Katie turned her head, presumably to check in on him. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her follow his gaze to the clouds below.

"Eyes front," Oliver corrected, yelling over the wind. Katie grinned and did as told, but the broom started to drop, lowering into the clouds. Oliver clung to Katie's waist. Oliver could feel Katie's laugh at his nervous response, though he couldn't hear it. His feet touched the cloud. They didn't part it, as he had imagined, but went right through it, like a ghost. They dropped lower. The bottom half of their bodies were enveloped in the clouds, invisible. _It's water vapor- a trick of the light,_ thought Oliver. Still, it felt like some kind of old magic, something he couldn't hope understand. They continued to sink lower and lower. They went through the clouds and, for a second, Oliver saw only white. Then, just as quickly, London came into view, tiny from such a height, it's lights just turning on as the sky continued to darken. "What are you doing?" Oliver shouted once again, identifying the city. The Thames looked nothing like the familiar little River Piddle of his town. "You overshot my house."

They lost altitude while maintaining speed, barreling towards the river. Oliver's stomach lurched upwards, like it had chosen to remain among the clouds. Instead of plummeting into the water, they skimmed it. Oliver's toes just touched the surface, creating ripples as Katie leveled out, disturbing more than they had of the clouds. He had forgotten how gracefully she flew. Oliver felt Katie shake with laughter again, and this time he had no choice but to join in. Nothing was funny, but everything was light. Everything was, like them, weightless. Inevitably moving forward. Oliver wrapped his left arm around Katie, holding her tight. He leaned to his right, throwing them just enough off balance to allow him to touch the water when he reached out his hand, drawing a straight line through the waves at top speed. Katie's hand appeared next to his, smaller but more sure, and suddenly it was two lines, like he imagined his feet would make in the clouds. They straightened up again, and Katie made a fast, low turn, just stopping short of hitting a barge as she headed them in the opposite direction. She slowed as she rose higher, flying over a smaller offshoot of the river. It was a large brook, one that Oliver knew lead straight into his town. At this slower speed, the wind caused less of a disturbance. It was quiet. Neither of them spoke to break the silence. Oliver closed his eyes, only opening them again when their rapid descent indicated they were nearing his home.

His feet touched the ground first, as he was taller. She touched down soon after. Without hesitation, Oliver released Katie and dismounted the broom. Katie followed suit, allowing her broom to float beside her. They stood in the tiny backyard behind his tiny house, both of them windblown and very quiet. She had been here a few times before. Once for a party, he remembered, thrown the summer after their Quidditch House Cup win. A second time for his mother's wake. Maybe once of twice in between.

"The last time you flew for fun," said Katie, finally, "was today." She smiled, proud of herself, and Oliver considered the display brave. His smile had been fading since they touched down; it felt a much more dangerous thing to do here on the ground.

"Right." Oliver reached up to smooth out his hair. "Thank you- for the ride."

"Of course. Have a good night."

"You, too." Oliver started towards his back door, but moved slowly. Katie hadn't remounted her broom yet.

"Oliver."

"Yeah?" He turned back towards her, wand already out and pointed at the lock of his door.

"I'm going to the game- the Holyhead game against Puddlemere. Ginny got me tickets."

"I would have given you tickets-"

"It's alright. Ginny got me tickets," she repeated.

"Alright." Oliver nodded. "I'll see you soon, Katie."

"Oliver." He had mumbled an incantation messily at his door, and the lock slid undone just as Katie called him again. He turned back to her.

"Yeah?"

"Go Harpies."

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 **A/N: Short, but it's the first thing I wrote, and the chapter that inspired the rest of the story. More soon. I appreciate all feedback, if you have a second to review.**


	4. Austerity

Oliver awoke the next morning with the feeling that he had done, or would soon do, something terribly wrong. He had awoken before his alarm clock, so he used the remaining 18 minutes of rest to decide what, exactly, he had managed to screw up. By the time the buzzer rang from his night stand, he had already decided: he never should have accepted that ride home.

Having dressed, made his bed, put on the kettle and cracked two eggs into a pan, he finally arrived at the reason that this particular decision was a mistake. To allow Katie to fly him home was, for a number of reasons, reckless. As a professional Quidditch player, he needed to protect his physical state. He scolded himself silently. If Katie would have made a minute mistake in her flight, he could have lost his career. She had, after all, flown with more risk than necessary, just for the fun of it. Furthermore, if someone had spotted them- well, a Muggle would have called the Police, and word would have gotten to the Ministry. A witch or wizard would have called the Daily Prophet, which may have been far worse. Katie Bell was a good friend, and an old friend, but the papers didn't care. Oliver reckoned he could be spotted on the back of Horace Slughorn's broomstick and still hear rumors of a torrid affair.

With that unpleasant picture in his mind, he set about eating his breakfast. He steeped his tea routinely, for three minutes at 96 degrees celsius. He had read it on a box years ago and stuck to it. He dipped his toast, perfectly golden, into two sunny-side up eggs. He saved the sausage, his favorite part of the meal, for last. He cleaned the dishes. He wiped the table. He stared at his kitchen. A day off.

He had a day off routine, when it wasn't hijacked by the Weasley family. In about thirty minutes, he should be beginning his run. Even filling the small gap of time between breakfast and his workout seemed impossible today. A day off was, as he had decided long ago, the day to clear his life of anything that could possibly become a distraction from his career. This didn't usually consist of much, because Oliver was never easily distracted. But today, the distraction had woken him up and kept his mind occupied during breakfast.

Oliver waved his wand, and the thin top drawer of the desk in his small office, a piece of furniture he rarely touched (but never got rid of, because an office needed a desk) slipped open. Out of it flew a few pieces of parchment, envelopes and, from the desktop, a single black pen. From the kitchen, Oliver could hear the young tawny owl in the office caw at the sudden movement. One sheet settled nicely onto the kitchen table, the pen waiting for Oliver's open hand. The rest of the paper and the envelopes hovered above.

 _Mr. and Mrs. Weasley,_

 _Thank you very much for dinner, as well as the apple pies which, as I'm sure does not surprise you, I've already eaten._

Okay, that last wasn't quite true. But it would be, as soon as he was back from his run.

 _I'm sorry that my arrival was so last minute, but Charlie's invitation was hard to resist. I haven't had a roast in ages, and yours was absolutely delicious. It was so great to see you all again. The reason I'm writing is to repay the favor. I assume Ginny offers her share of player's guest tickets to the family, but I wanted to ensure that whoever wanted to go was able to. I never use my guest tickets, so if you'd like to bring the whole family to the Puddlemere/Harpies match, they'll be waiting at the box office under Mr. Weasley's name. There are five of them, and they're good seats, right with the guests of the Harpies' players._

 _Thanks again,_

 _O. Wood_

There, that was fine. It was short, of course, but Oliver never wrote long owls- he rarely wrote owls at all. He felt it was only appropriate to thank the Weasley's for dinner. The parchment had a bit of grease smeared on the bottom, left over from breakfast. Myopically focusing on the task ahead, Oliver ignored this. He pushed the finished letter to the side; is folded itself and slid into an envelope. A new piece of paper settled in front of him.

 _Katie,_

 _Thanks for the ride home. I should have thought to bring my own broom. I know you said Ginny got you a ticket for the Puddlemere/Harpies match, but I want to make sure you could bring a friend, if you want. There's a ticket under your name at the box office. Figured you'd need someone to offer you solace when your Harpies can't get one past the Puddlemere Keeper._

 _"No team can ever best the best of Puddlemere!"_  
 _Oliver_

Signing off with the Puddlemere anthem, Oliver couldn't help but hope that it made the letter appear more casual than it felt. He hadn't spoken to Katie for months before he saw her at Gryffindor's practice the day before. Now he felt compelled to repay her for the sudden flight. His house may have been between Hogwarts and Katie's own home, but London was not. She had flown way out of her way to- what? To make him look silly for laughing at nothing, like a madman, on the back of her broom? No- she had been laughing, too. For allowing her to relish in his lack of control for just a few minutes longer? Maybe, but even he had forgotten to be dissatisfied with his position by the time they reached the Thames. Why, then-

Distractions. Oliver cut his own thoughts short, looking over at the clock. Time for his run. He released the piece of parchment that held his note to Katie, allowing it to fold itself and nestle into an envelope. He scribbled the names of the recipients onto the letters and, with a wave of his wand, sent the rest of the supplies back where they belonged. He followed them into the office, carrying his envelopes, and went straight to the open bird cage in the corner. The owl stared back at him silently.

"Grenouille, you've got work to do." The big owl didn't budge. It was named, not long after Oliver's mother's death, not for the French word for frog, but for the Keeper in the _Alas, I Have Transfigured My Feet,_ a silly book Oliver's mother used to read to him when he was young. The owl didn't know, nor did he appreciate, the rare piece of sentimentality on his owner's part. Oliver attached the letters to the bird's feet and yanked opened the window. The bird stood still. "I know it's been a while. It's just two deliveries, alright? You can stay out as long as you want and when you come back-"

Finally, and quite suddenly, Grenouille took flight. Oliver watched for moment before turning away, leaving the window open. It was nice outside- not quite the cold of winter yet, just the cool of fall. In the sparsely populated county side of Piddlehinton, autumn had already made itself known in the rust red color of the trees. The colors were beautiful at this time of year; the grass was greener than in most areas of England, the trees a myriad of fall colors, blending together, if you looked long enough, into a mesh of smooth beige. The flowers on the ground were still, for the most part, in bloom. It would be a nice run today, with scenery made for a postcard. Oliver didn't notice. He had very little interest in foliage. It was hard enough to keep focus today without thoughts of the beauty of nature. He pushed most things aside, and today 'most things' included the truth.

The truth was that last night, for the first time in a long time, he had a dream. He didn't dream of the night's flight, the rushing of wind or the glassy surface of the Thames. The clouds were no where in the dream, nor thoughts of trophies or brooms. Even Katie Bell, the smile of whom had been lingering at the back of his mind all morning, was not in his dream. He could blame her, if he wanted, for being his distraction, but there was something else, something deeper, that he refused to admit. The flip of his stomach, the unsettlingly pleasant warmth of Katie in his arms, shaking with laugher as they flew on and on- that was not the warmth of which he had dreamt. The part of him that he struggled to control wanted to see her, but ached for something else, too. Suddenly, he had begun to want the warmth of the Weasley home- the fire, the steam of his tea warming his face. He wanted a warm meal in his stomach, and he wanted the symphony of simultaneous laughter. He wanted more. He wanted not to want more.

He wanted to blame his want on someone other than himself. He laced up his trainers and ran.

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 **A/N: This one was fun to write, but rather introspective for Oliver, so I'm afraid I may have lost a few of you. I hope not. There's more fun to be had in the next chapter, promise.**


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